Poems

A Monkey at the Window

(1)

The little boy, who was playing in bed,
While his wounded mother cooks,
Is throwing little words and circles
Out of the small window

She smiles
(The whole world lights up)
He mumbles - What does he think he sees?

There's a monkey on the window
Behind the door
But he is still falling
Into deep darkness
He raises not a scream
He raises his claws - this dark
provoked
boy

(2)

She did not teach him crying - suddenly - singing.
Dark-skinned - as she wished to be
She teaches him far ends and vastness
And calls him: Tolerance

Behind him, a mount of metaphors
In front of him, a river and a gulp of night
And caravans calling him to travel away
(Where is the thread
That fire
Those talents?)

(3)

Running - through an alleyway
He splatters the oil all over his shorts, this boy!

He wetted his shorts
From laughter
As he runs in Eternity
This alleyway
The mob of dogs
The conspiracy of fates!

(4)

The door is made - hinting to a hand that sweats
You are the key
The creak of the universe - it's your only secret
On it, you rest a shoulder of a future and imaginaries
You endure on behalf of it the itching of wood worms"
In your heart
The smell of dampness
The hammers of enemies and friends
(Long is the absence of light
It paints things with awakening
Long is the presence of paint!)

You enter - from wherever you wish - stabbed by fatigue
The wind following you - you wanted (it).
Traumas toying with you

He used to make necklaces out of seashells
Colouring them with his own fairytales
And befriend stranger frogs
While she watches him
From behind the door /from the window
(She rushes to reach him
He raises
Nothing!)

(5)

In the forest the lonely one knows all the voices
Calling her were the eyes of loved ones
Their songs are luring her
With the tenderness of their fingers
And her own translucent loneliness
She sits silently
Next to any thing
Making tea
Or cooking the porridge

In the garden
Of the strange home her home
She calls the pots of washing
To the sound of morning
Scrubbing everything in their place
Eyeing the radio
Calling her to a distant sand
To a desert
But her colour seeps out as a river
So she can sing…
And the boy?
………. ………….
In a green forest
Or a red one
Or a desert
Who was calling (her) him to Eternity?

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